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I need hardly say that I often thought of my unhappy visitant, often wondered how she was getting on. A year later I was staying with a friend in Ipswich who was a visitor at the prison there, and I remembered how it was to Ipswich she had been brought back, and I asked to see her. My friend knew her, and told me that she had made no further attempt to escape, and that she believed the child was dead. It had been an old promise that she would one day take me over the prison. I claimed it, and begged that I might be allowed to have a few words with that particular inmate. It was not according to the regulations, but my friend was a privileged person. That afternoon I passed with her under that dreary portal, and after walking along interminable white-washed passages, and past how many locked and numbered doors, my friend whispered to a warder, who motioned me to a cell.

A woman was sitting on her bed with her head in her hands.

“You have not forgotten me, I hope,” I said gently. It may be weak, but I have never been able to speak ungently to any one in trouble, whatever the cause may be. I have known too much trouble myself.

She raised her head slowly, pushed back her hair, and looked at me.

I had never seen her before.

I could only stare helplessly at her.

“But you are not the woman who escaped last October?” I stammered at last.

“Yes,” she said pathetically, “I am. Who else should I be? What do you want with me?”

But I was speechless. It was all so unexpected, so inexplicable. I have often thought since how much stranger fact is than fiction. The more interested one is in life and in one’s fellow-creatures the more surprises there are in store for one. With every year I live my sense of wonder increases, and with it my realisation of my own ignorance. As I stared amazedly at her, a change came over her face. She looked at me almost with eagerness.

“You didn’t take me for ‘er, did you?” she said hurriedly. “‘Er as ‘elped me. Did you know ‘er? She ain’t copped, is she? Don’t tell me as she’s copped too.”

“I thought you were her,” I said. “I don’t know what I thought. I don’t understand it.”

“She found me on a dirty night,” she said, “in a tumbledown cottage. I’d never seen her afore. But she crep’ in and found me, and tole me there was a watch kep’ for me at Woodbridge. And she changed clothes with me, so as to give me a bit of a chance. Mine was fair stiff with mud, for I’d laid in a wet ditch till night, but they showed the blasted colour for all that. And she give me all she had on her–her clothes, and a bite of bread and bacon, and two pence. And it wasn’t as if we was pals. I’d never seen her afore. She stuck at nothing, and she only larfed at the risk, for they’d have shut her up for certain if they’d caught her. She said she’d manage some’ow. And she ‘eartened me up, and put me on the road for Wickham, and she said she’d dror away the pursoot by hiding the prison clothes somewhere in the opsit direction where they could be found easy by the first fool.”

“She did it,” I said.

“And how did she spare ’em? She’d nuthin’ but them.”

“I gave her some more. If she had been my own sister I could not have done more for her.”

“And she worn’t caught, wor she?”

“Not that I know of. No, I feel sure she never was. I helped her to get away.”

“I was took in spite of all,” said the woman, “and by my own silliness. But I seed my little Nan alive fust, and that was all I wanted. And I don’t know who she was, nor what she was. She tole me she was a outcast and a tramp and a good-for-nothing. But there’s never been anybody yet, be they who they may, as done for me what she done. She’d have give me the skin orf her back if she could ‘ave took it orf. And it worn’t as if I knowed her. I’d never set eyes on ‘er afore, nor never shall again.”

I have never seen her again, either.